Alan acted swiftly and decisively, delivering clinical, ruthless blows. In less than a minute, he had swept through the stone chambers, and the four werewolves guarding the hollow had ceased breathing before they could even register an intruder.
With the guards neutralized, he began a methodical search of each chamber. Since he had gone to the trouble of infiltrating this pit, he intended to extract whatever value he could find. However, Alan quickly realized that this pack of feral werewolves lived as paupers. Aside from some rotting meat torn from unidentified carcasses, they had no savings or personal effects of any worth.
Only Fenrir's private quarters offered any potential. Although Greyback was a wizard by birth, he clearly lacked even basic hygiene habits. The room reeked, cluttered with piles of stained, discarded clothing, and the floor was dark with old bloodstains.
Enduring the stench, Alan sifted through the filth. He recovered a leather coin purse and two sheets of parchment. The purse held roughly two hundred Galleons, though the bulk of it was a heavy, inconvenient mix of Silver Sickles and Bronze Knuts. It seemed that while Greyback led a formidable pack, his liquid assets were surprisingly thin.
The two parchments were spread carelessly across a scarred wooden desk. The first was a manifest, dense with columns of names and figures detailing the black-market rates for magical creatures and sentient beings.
An adult unicorn could fetch 1,000 Galleons, while a foal was worth 1,500. A healthy centaur was listed at 600. These were just the baseline smuggling fees. No wonder they were so desperate; the profit margins were astronomical, Alan thought as he scanned the shock of numbers.
Even Alan hadn't expected the scale of the wizarding world's shadow economy. The list wasn't restricted to British fauna; it included exotic creatures from abroad, as well as sentient races like Veela, Merfolk, and even other werewolves. This was no amateur tally; it was a standardized price guide from a professional syndicate.
Looking for a source, Alan checked the corners of the document. In the bottom right, he found a small, embossed stamp depicting an ancient spear. Below it was a simple name: Silver Spear.
Silver Spear? Alan paused. The name was familiar, but not from any recent news. He recalled seeing it in a volume on the history of dueling. It had been a notorious secret society originating in the eighteenth century, famously exclusive: they only accepted members who carried wands made of aspen.
They began as a refined circle of enthusiasts—aspen wood being prized for its ivory-like finish and high performance—and naturally chose the name Silver Spear. However, because aspen wands typically chose wizards with strong wills and a competitive streak, the club had rapidly evolved into a violent dueling circle. Its members became infamous for their aggression, often maiming or killing opponents before boastfully crediting their victory to the Silver Spear.
The historical records grew vague toward the end. Internal conflict apparently tore the club apart in a series of lethal skirmishes, after which the name vanished from public record.
Did the club survive, or has someone resurrected the name for a smuggling ring? Alan had no answers. He folded the manifest and turned to the second parchment.
This one was a registry of names, many marked in red ink. Some had been crossed out, others had checkmarks, and several remained blank.
Is this a census of werewolves? Alan speculated. Crosses for the eliminated, checks for those who submitted to Greyback, and blanks for those yet to be tracked down.
He scanned the list until his eyes caught an unmarked name that felt out of place.
Remus John Lupin.
Wasn't that a close friend of the Potters? A Hogwarts graduate? If he were a werewolf, it seemed impossible that the school wouldn't have known. Had he been infected after his school years? Alan considered the possibility of a coincidence, but the wizarding population was too small for name duplication to be common. It appeared Mr. Lupin carried a heavy secret.
None of that was Alan's concern, however. If Lupin had lived quietly for this long, Alan had no reason to interfere. He pocketed the list, thinking it might serve as a useful reference if he encountered the pack's remnants elsewhere.
A sudden rustling came from the main cavern. The imprisoned creatures had likely caught the scent of fresh blood, or perhaps the transition of the morning light through the vents had signaled their waking hour. A chorus of grunts and whines began to echo off the stone walls.
The livestock. I almost forgot, Alan thought.
He stepped out of the bedroom into the oppressive, stuffy dark of the cave. He unhooked a bronze oil lamp from the wall and lit it, the flickering yellow flame barely pushing back the gloom.
Alan moved through the rows of iron cages. Over a dozen creatures were held here. The first cage contained two Mooncalves, looking like wide-eyed, spindly alpacas. Their bulbous eyes shimmered like crystal spheres, but they were visibly unwell—listless, rib-thin, and neglected. In the next cage, a young Thestral stood silently. Being naturally skeletal, its physical decline was harder to gauge, but it remained motionless as Alan approached.